Voices in the Night Part 8

Until, in the far distance, a red changed to green, the signals which had stood against the evening express dropped, and it showed upon the bridge like some huge glowworm, slackening speed as it came; for the station lay not two hundred yards from where the bridge ended in a semi-fortified gateway.

So the train slid past below the bastioned wall almost at a foot's pace, and half a dozen or more English lads, part of a fresh draft from England just up from Bombay, thrust their heads out of the window curious to see what this strange place, what this strange race with which they were to have so much to do, were like.

'Well! I am blowed if they aren't flyin' kites like Christians,' said one in a hushed voice, an' I thought they was all 'eathen, I did----'

CHAPTER IV

AN UNFORGOTTEN PAST

'Mr. Raymond!'

Lady Arbuthnot's voice was insistent, yet soft. She wanted to rouse the sleeper without attracting attention, and now that the waning of daylight had ended out-door amus.e.m.e.nts, people had begun to drift into the club. The library tables were being rifled of the new picture papers, the smoking bar was fast filling with men, and sounds of women's laughter came from the quaint vaulted rooms where Badminton was being continued by electric light.

But an almost Eastern peace still lingered in certain nooks between the interlacing aisles of the building (which had once been the palace of kings)--and in one of these Grace Arbuthnot had run her quarry, Jack Raymond, to earth in a lounge-chair fast asleep over a French novel.

The remains of a stiff whisky-peg stood on a small table, and Grace Arbuthnot looked at it vexedly, then at the face, but half visible in the dim light; for the lamp had been deliberately turned down.

She had not seen it closely for twelve years except for those brief minutes at the race-meeting, now nearly a week ago; for, rather to her indignation, Mr. Raymond had not followed up the renewal of their acquaintance by calling. What is more, he had emphasised the omission by writing his name in the visitor's book, as a perfect stranger might have done. The fact had roused her antagonism; she had told herself that she would decline to have that past of theirs treated as if it were not past and forgotten. For though, ten years ago, she had certainly been engaged to Jack Raymond, they had broken off their engagement by mutual consent, with their eyes open; so it was foolish to fuss about it now. And so, partly from this antagonism, partly from a diametrically opposite motive--the inevitable woman's desire to keep some hold on the man she has once loved--it had occurred to her, when the days pa.s.sed and brought no news of the missing jewel-box, that if she were to consult any one regarding the letter, it might be well to choose Jack Raymond. He was one, she knew, absolutely to be trusted by any woman; his position--miserable as it was from an official point of view--gave him unusual opportunities of being able to help her; and finally---- Why! Oh! why should he go off at a tangent and make her feel responsible?

And yet, as she looked at his sleeping face, noting its change, the unfamiliarity where once all had been so familiar, she frowned and turned as if to go, wondering what had induced her to think of consulting this man. What could _he_ do now? Once upon a time, when he was different--when he was, as she recollected him----

The thought softened her face, and sent her back to call again, 'Mr.

Raymond!'

He did not stir. Was the whisky-peg responsible for the soundness of his sleep? And was she responsible for the whisky-peg? She had known for years that he had drifted away, as it were, from everything that made life seem worth living to her, but the contrast between her fate and his had never come home to her before. The wife of a Lieutenant-Governor--as _he_ might have been if he had not thrown up the service in a pet--and the Secretary to the club! What a miserable failure for such a man! A man who for two long years had been her ideal--who even now could do, should do---- She bent towards him suddenly, quite irrationally, and whispered, '_Jack!_'

As she paused expectant, there was a half-mischievous smile in her pretty eyes; and yet they held a suspicion of tears. It was such an odd world. Why could not a woman forget when she had ceased to care? Men did; this one certainly had--no!----

The still small voice had apparently taken time to filter through to its destination; but it had found the chord of memory, and struck it sharply.

'Yes! what is it, dear?' came the answer drowsily. Then Jack Raymond stirred, stared, finally woke to facts.

'I beg your pardon, Lady Arbuthnot,' he began, rising hurriedly, 'I had been playing some hard games at racquets and----'

'But you always do sleep about this time, don't you? I've noticed you in the distance,' she said coolly. The suggestion in her words that she still had some right to criticise, added to his surprised irritation at finding that he had somehow gone back to the past. Why the deuce should the memory of the very inflection of her voice as she used to say 'Jack' have come back to confuse his brain, and absolutely make his heart beat?

'Yes!' he replied, with palpable hardihood, 'you're right. I generally do sleep. There's nothing else to do, you see, between tennis and whist. But if you want any stores from the go-down,[5] I am quite at your commands. There is an awfully good Stilton on cut, if you'd like some.'

She beat her foot impatiently. This thrusting forward of his duties as a sort of high-cla.s.s grocer was _impayable_! He _could_ not think she had sought him out in order to buy Stilton cheese of him! And yet--how like the old headstrong Jack it was!

'Do tennis and whist make up your day now, Mr. Raymond,' she said swiftly. 'It used not to be so.'

The reproach in her voice was plain, and he resented it. She had left him to go his own way, and he had gone it. What business was it of hers now?

'You forget the racing and the betting,' he answered coolly; 'and my incurable idleness has at least this virtue--it leaves me, as I said, at Lady Arbuthnot's disposal.'

He gave a little formal bow, which sent another pang of memory through her. The fact annoyed her. How intolerable it was, that despite his degeneration into a high-cla.s.s grocer--here she smiled faintly--he could scarcely speak a word to her, here in the semi-darkness--they two alone--without bringing back---- Ah! so much! Yes! it was intolerable.

It must be ignored; or rather the solid, sensible facts must be dragged out into the daylight and given their real significance.

'I am glad of that,' she replied, 'for I want you to help me. But let us sit down--people will be less likely to disturb us then.'

He obeyed, feeling restive under her calm superiority, yet admiring it.

She was no failure, anyhow; he had been right in his choice, years ago.

Not that it mattered; since all that had once been between them had been forgotten--by him at any rate. Absolutely forgotten.

'Mr. Raymond!' she began suddenly, leaning closer to him over the table, 'surely it would be foolish in either of us to be ashamed, or to pretend forgetfulness of the close tie that was between us--once.'

'I have not forgotten,' he said involuntarily, then paused disconcerted at his own collapse. Which was true, his denial or affirmation of memory? Both, in a way.

She smiled, as women do, at remembrance, even when they believe they wish forgetfulness.

'I said pretend, Mr. Raymond!' she corrected. 'We are not likely to forget. Why should we?'

'On the other hand, why should we remember?' he asked. 'The past, Lady Arbuthnot, is past.'

The very idea of his thinking it necessary to a.s.sert this made her frown.

'Exactly so; therefore I come to you because memory gives me a friend, nothing more. And I need a friend just now.'

'You have plenty of them to choose from,' he began, 'you always had----'

'And I choose you,' she put in, with a charming little nod.

He sat bewildered for a moment, then said stiffly, 'May I ask why?'

'If I may answer by the question, why not? Surely we need not be strangers? And besides----'

'And besides?'--he echoed grimly, 'a woman's second reason is generally better than her first.'

Lady Arbuthnot's face grew grave. 'Mine is, Mr. Raymond, infinitely better. What I want your help for is no mere personal matter; it is something in which you might do a yeoman's service to the Government----'

'You are very kind,' he interrupted brusquely; 'but, as I thought you knew, I found out twelve years ago that the Government could do very well without my services.'

'It might have done better with them----'

'You are very kind,' he repeated; 'and this difficulty of yours?'

She flushed up. 'Excuse me! It was you, not I, who wandered from the point. I knew my reasons for choosing your help. However, let us stick to business. I have lost a jewel-case.'

'So I heard,' he said, 'and I am sorry it should have contained your pearls.'

Pearls! she thought vexedly; did he think she had come to him about the pearls? That was but a step better than Stilton cheese. His following words, however, disarmed her.

'They belonged to your mother, I remember; they were beautiful pearls!'